Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

Roberta and me sit oan this battered couch, and talk aboot travelling. Ah reckon that eftir Europe ah’m gaunny dae the States next summer, get on that BUNAC thing fir the visa, teach fitba tae American bairns, then just fuck off and tour aroond till the poppy runs oot. The others are in this kitchen and spillin oot intae the wee backgreen, dancin tae they Northern Soul records, aw proper waxins like the International GTO’s ‘I Love My Baby’, and we’ve sat doon, sharing this room wi these dirty-looking cunts, who’re smokin smack offay some tinfoil. Ah’m watchin them and one gadge, he’s goat lank hair n big dark circles under his eyes, looks at us wi a grim smile n cauld eyes. — Wawn summer dis? he slurs in a Scouse accent.

Mingin cunts daein that fuckin crap at a Northern perty …

— Naw … yir awright, ah say, waving the pipe and foil away. Roberta looks a bit cross and does the same. The minging gadge shrugs and giggles n passes it tae his mate who burns the underside ay the foil wi a lighter and sucks up a load ay smoke through the pipe intae his lungs, gaun aw stunned and heavy-eyed as it hits him.

Stupid cunt, turning intae a fuckin zombie oan that shite when thaire’s aw this fun tae be hud …

— I wanna get out of here, Roberta says. — Let’s go and find t’others.

Ah gets up wi her, and we head taewards the kitchen, tae see if Salford Chris has showed up. Ah’m making for the back gairden when Roberta intercepts us n says, — Ah were kinda thinking that we maht go back t’mine.

— Sound, ah go, in cool delight, tippin Keezbo the nod as the do-do-do-do-do-dos announce the start ay that Invitations classic ‘What’s Wrong With Me Baby?’. And ah’m thinkin, this Roberta better be some ride, pullin us away fae this, as ah shout ma buddy the rendezvous instructions, — The Swinging Sporran in toon, Sackville Street at the Arndale, the morn at twelve bells.

Keezbo’s wi this Angie bird, n he nods ower tae Tommy, whae’s talkin fitba battles wi some Man City lads. — Two — nil tae the Fort Ginger Rhythm Section, Mr Mark, and he smiles a grin as long and oily as the River Forth.

— Go on, the Section, ah gies him the thumbs up back, — toughest skiers aroond!

As we depart, the sun’s comin up ower west Manchester’s red-brick buildings, but we’re still speed-chilly as Roberta takes my airm. Ah decide tae stick it roond her shoodirs and she curls satisfyingly intae ma side. — It ruins yer lahf, she says, talkin about they heroin junky cunts, as we head back tae hers, — ya get addicted after joost woon go, lahk. Glad ya got more sense.

— Too right, ah tell her, all sniffy and virtuous, but now ah’m thinking, ah really have tae try that shit. In fact ah’m cursin ma cowardice n the shabby pretence it was some sort ay coolness or intelligence or experience.

Ah fuckin bottled it like a pansy, pot-smoking student wanker, and those boys saw that and fuckin well knew it. Is that what ah’m becoming? A smug, fucking insipid student cunt?

But ah can never huv a bad thought too long oan speed, n ah’m ootay my box ranting about the brilliance ay the Minds’ Sons and Fascination album, how it’s much better than New Gold Dream (no tae say NGD is a bad album) and aw ah can think aboot is removing Roberta’s clathes, and ma ain of course, n the world is a pretty fuckin okay place.

Monday Morning

My heid’s nippin eftir that weekend, n see this fuckin Fleetwood … At least yon Roberta lassie was a dark horse; ah’ve never been gammed like that before, n she didnae seem tae bother aboot the ginger pubes. We had a good laugh n aw. She goes: ‘I don’t normally sleep with somebody I’ve only just met, you know.’ ‘Neither do I,’ ah said, ‘naebody usually lets us.’ She looked angry for a second, then laughed and hit us with a pillay. Ah fucking love Manchester! We spent maist ay Sunday eftirnoon in the pub; first the Sporran, then oantae the Cyprus Tavern wi Roberta n her mate Celia, and Keezbo, Angie, Nicksy — Chris Armitage (whae finally showed), till Tommy swung by wi some Man City Kool Kats, and issued the Fort Ginger Rhythm Section an ultimatum: lift hame now or make yir ain wey back. So ah reluctantly left ma new and auld pals, lookin forward tae hooking up wi them again. As we’d staggered oot the boozer, pished n stoned, n went tae find the motor, we saw some sacked miners handin oot leaflets in Piccadilly. Ah couldnae look at them; ah steered every cunt ower the road oan some crap pretext.

Roberta and me exchanged numbers. Whether we never see each other again or end up star-crossed lovers is totally irrelevant. The key was that we had a barry time n neither ay us regretted a single minute.

But regrets are for Monday mornings and now ah’m back under the harsh strip lights ay the workshop, sweatin like a blind dyke in a fishmonger’s. Our insubordination oan Saturday, up at the cushy number in the pub, has been punished and we’ve been taken oaf that job n pit back tae the two-slice: the monotony ay factory work. So it’s knocking house panels thegither then nailing ties onto them, so they can throw up mair cheapo Barratt slums-tae-be oan the last toxic fields in between Edinburgh n Glesgay.

POOKOW go the nail guns, attached tae long tubes oan a circuit that blows continuous compressed air, smashing the six-inch nails intae the wid like bullets.

POOKOW.

POOKOW.

Monday morning; cunting, evil, degrading, spunk-guzzling Monday morning. Aroond thirty staff oan duty and ah cannae talk tae one single fucker. Not one. Gillsland is the one cunt tae dae well oot ay the recession, moving oot ay high-end shopfitting wi six men, tae low-end house-panel construction and thirty employees. The labour costs are aboot the same, mind you, the tight cunt.

Bank accounts don’t grow on trees, you gotta picka pocket or two …

POOKOW.

POOKOW.

But ah didnae care how monotonous n de-skilled the job wis, ah just wanted tae keep my heid doon, hide in some solid graft, build a few panels, sweat oaf the toxins fae the weekend’s drink and speed, and work through this mashed vertebrae and mean depression till brek time.

Then at the silent brek, three cups ay black coffee go doon. Ah see Les looking at us. Ye ken what’s coming next. — Right, lads …

Ah could’ve done withoot performing in the bogs and ah hudnae really expected victory. It was Les’s ritual though, n tae be fair tae the cunt, it certainly kick-started the week.

The six ay us assemble: Me, Davie Mitch, Sean Harrigan, Barry McKechnie, Russ Wood and Seb (that’s Johnny Jackson’s nickname — he once went oot wi this ride called Sonia, so we call him S onia’s E x B oyfriend, that being the cunt’s only claim tae fame). We go tae the lavvy, hittin an aluminium cubicle each. Les issues each ay us the last week’s Daily Records , Monday tae Friday, and one Sunday Mail fae yesterday, which he eywis brings in tae make up the numbers. This is where Les is in his element. A frustrated comedian, he compères at the Tartan Club and the Dockers’ Club. It’s an obvious tears-ay-a-clown job; his wife left him years ago n his daughter, whae he nivir sees, lives in England. Life has its disappointments, but Les grabs his crapulent fun where he can. He’s also a man tortured by piles tae the extent that he creams his erse before he goes oot drinking.

We each spread oor papers oantay the flair in front ay the toilet pans; ye can hear the rustling fae the other traps. Then ah lower ma keks n boxers, squattin ower the papers.

Stey relaxed …

The key is tae make sure that the shite comes out in a oner, wi nae breaks. That means you have tae get close tae the flair and be deft enough tae move forward so that it disnae coil in a pile but straightens oot in a line oan the newspaper.